Here, too, I had left a crowd in the passages, and on the stairs. Not a man remained. The house seemed to be dead; at noon-day with the sun shining outside. I saw no one, heard no one, until I reached the door of the room in which I had left the Committee and entered. Here, at last, I found life; but the same silence.
Round the table were seated some dozen of the members of the Committee. On seeing me they started, like men detected in an act of which they were ashamed, some continuing to sit, sullen and scowling, with their elbows on the table, others stooping to their neighbours’ ears to whisper, or listen. I noticed that many were pale and all gloomy; and though the room was light, and hot noon poured in through three windows, a something grim in the silence, and the air of expectation which prevailed, struck a chill to my heart.
Father Benôit was not of them, but Baton was, and the lawyer, and the grocer, and the two gentlemen, and one of the Curés, and Doury — the last-named pale and cringing, with fear sitting heavily on him. I might have thought, at a first glance round, that nothing which had happened outside was known to them; that they were ignorant alike of the duel and the riot; but a second glance assured me that they knew all, and more than I did; so many of them, when they had once met my eyes, looked away.
“What has happened?” I asked, standing half-way between the door and the long table.
“Don’t you know, Monsieur?”
“No,” I muttered, staring at them. Even here that distant murmur filled the air.
“But you were at the duel, M. le Vicomte?” The speaker was Buton.
“Yes,” I said nervously. “But what of that? I saw M. le Marquis safe on his way home, and I thought that the crowd had separated. Now—” and I paused, listening.
“You fancy that you still hear them?” he said, eying me closely and smiling.
“Yes; I fear that they are at mischief.”
“We are afraid of that, too,” the smith answered drily, setting his elbows on the table, and looking at me anew. “It is not impossible.”
Then I understood. I caught Doury’s eye — which would fain have escaped mine — and read it there. The hooting of the distant crowd rose more loudly on the summer stillness; as it did so, faces round the table grew graver, lips grew longer, some trembled and looked down; and I understood. “My God!” I cried in excitement, trembling myself. “Is no one going to do anything, then? Are you going to sit here, while these demons work their will? While houses are sacked and women and children — —”
“Why not?” Buton said curtly.
“Why not?” I cried.
“Ay, why not?” he answered sternly — and I began to see that he dominated the others; that he would not and they dared not. “We went about to keep the peace, and see that others kept it. But your white cockades, your gentlemen bullies, your soldierless officers, M. le Vicomte — I speak without offence — would not have it. They undertook to bully us; and unless they learn a lesson now, they will bully us again. No, Monsieur,” he continued, looking round with a hard smile — already power had changed him wondrously— “let the people have their way for half an hour, and — —”
“The people?” I cried. “Are the rascals and sweepings of the streets, the gaol-birds, the beggars and forçats of the town — are they the people?”
“No matter,” he said frowning.
“But this is murder!”
Two or three shivered, and some looked sullenly from me, but the blacksmith only shrugged his shoulders. Still I did not despair, I was going to say more — to try threats, even prayers; but before I could speak, the man nearest to the windows raised his hand for silence, and we heard the distant riot sink, and in the momentary quiet which followed the sharp report of a gun ring out, succeeded by another and another. Then a roar of rage — distinct, articulate, full of menace.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried, looking round, while I trembled with indignation, “I cannot stand this! Will no one act? Will no one do anything? There must be some authority. There must be some one to curb this canaille; or presently, I warn you, I warn you all, that they will cut your throats also; yours, M. l’Avoué, and yours, Doury!”
“There was some one; and he is dead,” Buton answered. The rest of the Committee fidgeted gloomily.
“And was he the only one?”
“They’ve killed him,” the smith said bluntly. “They must take the consequences.”
“They?” I cried, in a passion of wrath and pity. “Ay, and you! And you! I tell you that you are using this scum of the people to crush your enemies! But presently they will crush you too!”
Still no one spoke, no one answered me; no eyes met mine; then I saw how it was; that nothing I could say would move them; and I turned without another word, and I ran downstairs. I knew already, or could guess, whither the crowd had gone, and whence came the shouting and the shots; and the moment I reached the Square I turned in the direction of the St. Alais’ house, and ran through the streets; through quiet streets under windows from which women looked down white and curious, past neat green blinds of modern houses, past a few staring groups; ran on, with all about me smiling, but always with that murmur in my ears, and at my heart grim fear.
They were sacking the St. Alais’ house! And Mademoiselle! And Madame!
The thought of them came to me late; but having come it was not to be displaced. It gripped my heart and seemed to stop it. Had I saved Mademoiselle only for this? Had I risked all to save her from the frenzied peasants, only that she might fall into the more cruel hands of these maddened wretches, these sweepings of the city?
It was a dreadful thought; for I loved her, and knew, as I ran, that I loved her. Had I not known it I must have known it now, by the very measure of agony which the thought of that horror caused me. The distance from the Trois Rois to the house was barely four hundred yards, but it seemed infinite to me. It seemed an age before I stopped breathless and panting on the verge of the crowd, and strove to see, across the plain of heads, what was happening in front.
A moment, and I made out enough to relieve me; and I breathed more freely. The crowd had not yet won its will. It filled the street on either side of the St. Alais’ house from wall to wall; but in front of the house itself, a space was still kept clear by the fire of those within. Now and again, a man or a knot of men would spring out of the ranks of the mob, and darting across this open space to the door, would strive to beat it in with axes and bars, and even with naked hands; but always there came a puff of smoke from the shuttered and loop-holed windows, and a second and a third, and the men fell back, or sank down on the stones, and lay bleeding in the sunshine.
It was a terrible sight. The wild beast rage of the mob, as they watched their leaders fall, yet dared not make the rush en masse which must carry the place, was enough, of itself, to appal the stoutest. But when to this and their fiendish cries were added other sounds as horrid — the screams of the wounded and the rattle of musketry — for some of the mob had arms, and were firing from neighbouring houses at the St. Alais’ windows — the effect was appalling. I do not know why, but the sunshine, and the tall white houses which formed the street, and the very neatness of the surroundings, seemed to aggravate the bloodshed; so that for a while the whole, the writhing crowd, the open space with its wounded, the ugly cries and curses and shots, seemed unreal. I, who had come hot-foot to risk all, hesitated; if this was Cahors, if this was the quiet town I had known all my life, things had come to a pass indeed. If not, I was dreaming.
But this last was a thought too wild to be entertained for more than a few seconds; and with a groan I thrust myself into the press, bent desperately on getting through and reaching the open space; though what I should do when I got there, or how I could help, I had not considered. I had scarcely moved, however, when I felt my arm gripped, and some one clinging obstinately to me, held me back. I turned to resent the action with a blow, — I was beside myself; but the man was Father Benôit, and my hand fell. I caught hold of him with a cry
of joy, and he drew me out of the press.
His face was pale and full of grief and consternation; yet by a wonderful chance I had found him, and I hoped. “You can do something!” I cried in his ear, gripping his hand hard. “The Committee will not act, and this is murder! Murder, man! Do you see?”
“What can I do?” he wailed; and he threw up his other hand with a gesture of despair.
“Speak to them.”
“Speak to them?” he answered. “Will mad dogs stand when you speak to them? Or will mad dogs listen? How can you get to them? Where can you speak to them? It is impossible. It is impossible, Monsieur. They would kill their fathers to-day, if they stood between them and vengeance.”
“Then, what will you do?” I cried passionately. “What will you do?”
He shook his head; and I saw that he meant nothing, that he could do nothing. And then my soul revolted. “You must! You shall!” I cried fiercely. “You have raised this devil, and you must lay him! Are these the liberties about which you have talked to us? Are these the people for whom you have pleaded? Answer, answer me, what you will do!” I cried. And I shook him furiously.
He covered his face with his hand. “God forgive us!” he said. “God help us!”
I looked at him for the first and only time in my life with contempt — with rage. “God help you?” I cried — I was beside myself. “God helps those who help themselves! You have brought this about! You! You! You have preached this! Now mend it!”
He trembled, and was silent. Unsupported by the passion which animated me, in face of the brute rage of the people, his courage sank.
“Now mend it!” I repeated furiously.
“I cannot get to them,” he muttered.
“Then I will make a way for you!” I answered madly, recklessly. “Follow me! Do you hear that noise? Well, we will play a part in it!”
A dozen guns had gone off, almost in a volley. We could not see the result, nor what was passing; but the hoarse roar of the mob intoxicated me. I cried to him to follow, and rushed into the press.
Again he caught and stayed me, clinging to me with a stubbornness which would not be denied. “If you will go, go through the houses! Go through the opposite houses!” he muttered in my ear.
I had sense enough, when he had spoken twice, to understand him and comply. I let him lead me aside, and in a moment we were out of the press, and hurrying through an alley at the back of the houses that faced the St. Alais’ mansion. We were not the first to go that way; some of the more active of the rioters had caught the idea before us, and gone by this path to the windows, whence they were firing. We found two or three of the doors open, therefore, and heard the excited cries and curses of the men who had taken possession. However, we did not go far. I chose the first door, and, passing quickly by a huddled, panic-stricken group of women and children — probably the occupants of the house — who were clustered about it, I went straight through to the street door.
Two or three ruffianly men with smoke-grimed faces were firing through a window on the ground floor, and one of these, looking behind him as I passed, saw me. He called to me to stop, adding with an oath that if I went into the street I should be shot by the aristocrats. But in my excitement I took no heed; in a second I had the door open, and was standing in the street — alone in the sunny, cleared space. On either side of me, fifty paces distant, were the close ranks of the mob; in front of me rose the white blind face of the St. Alais’ house, from which, even as I appeared, there came a little spit of smoke and the bang of a musket.
The crowd, astonished to see me there alone and standing still, fell silent, and I held up my hand. A gun went off above my head, and another; and a splinter flew from one of the green shutters opposite. Then a voice from the crowd cried out to cease firing; and for a moment all was still. I stood in the midst of a hot breathless hush, my hand raised. It was my opportunity — I had got it by a miracle; but for a moment I was silent, I could find no words.
At last, as a low murmur began to make itself heard, I spoke.
“Men of Cahors!” I cried. “In the name of the Tricolour, stand!” And trembling with agitation, acting on the impulse of the instant, I walked slowly across the street to the door of the besieged house, and under the eyes of all I took the Tricolour from my bosom, and hung it on the knocker of the door. Then I turned. “I take possession,” I cried hoarsely, at the top of my voice, that all might hear, “I take possession of this house and all that are in it in the name of the Tricolour, and the Nation, and the Committee of Cahors. Those within shall be tried, and justice done upon them. But for you, I call upon you to depart, and go to your homes in peace, and the Committee — —”
I got no farther. With the word a shot whizzed by my ear, and struck the plaster from the wall; and then, as if the sound released all the passions of the people, a roar of indignation shook the air. They hissed and swore at me, yelled “A la lanterne!” and “A bas le traître!” and in an instant burst their bounds. As if invisible floodgates gave way, the mob on either side rushed suddenly forward, and, rolling towards the door in a solid mass, were in an instant upon me.
I expected that I should be torn to pieces, but instead I was only buffeted and flung aside and forgotten, and in a moment was lost in the struggling, writhing mass of men, who flung themselves pell-mell upon the door, and fell over one another, and wounded one another in the fury with which they attacked it. Men, injured earlier, were trodden under foot now; but no one stayed for their cries. Twice a gun was fired from the house, and each shot took effect; but the press was so great, and the fury of the assailants, as they swarmed about the door, so blind, that those who were hit sank down unobserved, and perished under their comrades’ feet.
Thrust against the iron railings that flanked the door, I clung to them, and protected from the pressure by a pillar of the porch, managed with some difficulty to keep my place. I could not move, however; I had to stand there while the crowd swayed round me, and I waited in dizzy, sickening horror for the crisis. It came at last. The panels of the door, riven and shattered, gave way; the foremost assailants sprang at the gap. Yet still the frame, held by one hinge, stood, and kept them out. As that yielded at length under their blows, and the door fell inward with a crash, I flung myself into the stream, and was carried into the house among the foremost, fortunately — for several fell — on my feet.
I had the thought that I might outpace the others, and, getting first to the rooms upstairs, might at least fight for Mademoiselle if I could not save her. For I had caught the infection of the mob, my blood was on fire. There was no one in all the crowd more set to kill than I was. I raced in, therefore, with the rest; but when I reached the foot of the stairs I saw, and they saw, that which stopped us all.
It was M. de Gontaut, lifted, in that moment of extreme danger, above himself. He stood alone on the stairs, looking down on the invaders, and smiling — smiling, with everything of senility and frivolity gone from his face, and only the courage of his caste left. He saw his world tottering, the scum and rabble overwhelming it, everything which he had loved, and in which he had lived, passing; he saw death waiting for him seven steps below, and he smiled. With his slender sword hanging at his wrist, he tapped his snuff-box and looked down at us; no longer garrulous, feeble, almost — with his stories of stale intrigues and his pagan creed — contemptible; but steady and proud, with eyes that gleamed with defiance.
“Well, dogs,” he said, “will you earn the gallows?”
For a second no one moved. For a second the old noble’s presence and fearlessness imposed on the vilest; and they stared at him, cowed by his eye. Then he stirred. With a quiet gesture, as of a man saluting before a duel, he caught up the hilt of his sword, and presented the lower point. “Well,” he said with bitter scorn in his tone, “you have come to do it. Which of you will go to hell for the rest? For I shall take one.”
That broke the spell. With a howl, a dozen ruffians sprang up the stairs. I saw the brig
ht steel flash once, twice; and one reeled back, and rolled down under his fellows’ feet. Then a great bar swept up and fell on the smiling face, and the old noble dropped without a cry or a groan, under a storm of blows that in a moment beat the life out of his body.
It was over in a moment, and before I could interfere. The next, a score of men leaped over the corpse and up the stairs, with horrid cries — I after them. To the right and left were locked doors, with panels Wätteau-painted; they dashed these in with brutal shouts, and, in a twinkling, flooded the splendid rooms, sweeping away, and breaking, and flinging down in wanton mischief, everything that came to hand — vases, statues, glasses, miniatures. With shrieks of triumph, they filled the salon that had known for generations only the graces and beauty of life; and clattered over the shining parquets that had been swept so long by the skirts of fair women. Everything they could not understand was snatched up and dashed down; in a moment the great Venetian mirrors were shattered, the pictures pierced and torn, the books flung through the windows into the street.
I had a glimpse of the scene as I paused on the landing. But a glance sufficed to convince me that the fugitives were not in these rooms, and I sprang on, and up the next flight. Here, short as had been my delay, I found others before me. As I turned the corner of the stairs I came on three men, listening at a door; before I could reach them one rose. “Here they are!” he cried. “That is a woman’s voice! Stand back!” And he lifted a crowbar to beat in the door.
“Hold!” I cried in a voice that shook him, and made him lower his weapon. “Hold! In the name of the Committee, I command you to leave that door. The rest of the house is yours. Go and plunder it.”
The men glared at me. “Sacré ventre!” one of them hissed. “Who are you?”
“The Committee!” I answered.
He cursed me, and raised his hand. “Stand back!” I cried furiously, “or you shall hang!”
“Ho! ho! An aristocrat!” he retorted; and he raised his voice. “This way, friends — this way! An aristocrat! An aristocrat!” he cried.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 221
